CHAPTER FIVE
Spencer very slowly and very carefully released the breath that had caught in his chest when Daff had so unexpectedly reached out to touch him. His grip on the wine list tightened in an effort not to betray his trembling hands to her, and he immediately lowered his unseeing gaze back to the stark black-on-white letters in front of him, even though none of the words currently made an iota of sense.
Shit.
Was that really all it took to turn him on these days? One whisper of a touch? The answer to those burning questions had to be a resounding yes, if the straining bulge of his crotch was any indication. He sneaked a peek at her. A tiny little furrow between her perfectly arched brows marred the smoothness of her skin. She looked pensive, her attention directed out at the dark lagoon instead of her menu.
“Ready to order?” he asked, happy to hear that his voice sounded relatively normal. Her startled eyes flew back to his and she blinked slowly, looking like she was coming out of a deep sleep.
“Uh. You order. Whatever you choose will be fi—” She stopped, the frown deepening, before she reached for the wine list determinedly. “On second thought, give me a minute. I haven’t really looked at the menu.”
“I’ll be happy to choose.” He shrugged.
“Yeah? Well, you don’t know what I like. And I doubt we like the same things. So . . . I’ll pick my own wine. And food. And dessert.”
“Of course.” He wouldn’t have chosen her whole meal, damn it. He’d just meant the wine. Although he’d definitely feel more comfortable if she chose that.
Bringing her here had to be one of the worst decisions he’d ever made. He’d taken one look at the place and known that it was way too romantic for a casual dinner, and he’d been more than willing to call it quits earlier when she kept on nagging about it. But then she’d changed her mind again.
Confusing woman. It was hard to keep track of her lightning-fast mood changes. He contemplated her shiny down-bent head, marveling slightly at how soft and silky her dark-brown hair was. He recalled the texture of it beneath his roughened palm. He shouldn’t have touched her, but it had been an instinctive move—he’d seen the hair trapped in the collar of her coat and had tugged it free without much thought.
Stupid.
The move had been too intimate and had made the situation awkward. Then again, Spencer was a pro at being awkward. The eternal loner, his best friend had always been his brother, and after going to college, he’d bonded with his rugby teammates but hadn’t really forged deep and lasting friendships with any of them. He could barely function in civil society and preferred to keep his mouth shut in social situations. The second he opened it, he always seemed to shove his foot right down his throat.
Still, he couldn’t sit here tongue-tied all evening. The woman already thought he had the personality of a mushroom.
“It’s rainy,” he observed inanely. Yeah, way to state the fuckin’ obvious, Spence!
“The forecast says it’ll be this way for the rest of the week,” she said, barely looking up from the menu.
“We need it, but it’s getting a bit problematic.” Christ, still with the weather.
“How so?” she asked, looking up, her eyes frank and assessing. All the McGregor girls had the prettiest gray eyes, but Daff’s was the only gaze Spencer ever found himself lost in. And the shittiest part of it was that he knew she didn’t find herself in the same predicament with him. Ever.
“Uh. With the kids and the center.”
“Oh yes, of course.” She looked away—without any fucking hesitation—and went back to perusing the wine list. “I think I’ll have a glass of this 2013 cabernet sauvignon.”
“Why don’t we just get a bottle of that?” Spencer shrugged and tossed aside his menu.
“You’ll have the same thing?” Daff looked surprised by that, and Spencer lifted his shoulders again.
“Sure. I trust your taste.” He did. A hell of a lot more than he did his own. When it came to choosing wine, he always felt like a complete philistine. He lacked the knowledge to make an informed choice and usually only went with the house red or white. He never knew if he should sniff or swirl the stuff before sipping it and took his cues from those around him. He always felt exceptionally awkward when he was around people he perceived as more learned on the subject. He supposed it was one of the hazards of being nouveau riche, so to speak.
Daff looked a little taken aback by his words and fiddled with the ends of her hair for a moment. Thankfully the waiter returned before another awkward silence could descend.
Daff watched Spencer expectantly after the young man asked if they were ready to order and, belatedly recognizing what they were waiting for, he self-consciously asked the guy for the wine she’d mentioned. From the way the waiter jumped and Daff rolled her eyes, Spencer knew he’d probably barked the words. It was something he did when he was nervous and he was aware that it came across as rude or bossy, but he’d take that over people knowing what he was really feeling.
After the waiter scurried away like a frightened mouse, Spencer heaved a sigh and shook his head. He put aside the wine list and focused his attention on the menu. He was aware of Daff’s scrutiny and ignored it for a moment while he gathered his thoughts.
But Daffodil McGregor wasn’t a woman to be ignored.
“You didn’t have to snarl at the poor guy,” she chastised, and Spencer stared levelly back at her. It was a look meant to intimidate, one that had gotten him out of a few uncomfortable situations before. But she didn’t react the way other people did. No lowered eyes or hastily mumbled apology—she just returned his look unflinchingly.
“Didn’t mean to,” he finally admitted. “Sometimes it just comes out like that.”
She pursed her lips as she considered his words.
“I see,” she said thoughtfully, and the words drove Spencer a little crazy. What did she see? He was on the verge of asking when the waiter rushed back with their wine. Gracing them with a nervous smile, his eyes darted to Spencer for a second before he focused all his attention on Daff. Clearly he was too intimidated by Spencer to hold his stare for long.
Fuck, how badly had he snapped at the poor guy earlier?
He made an effort to loosen up when the waiter—Liam, as his name tag helpfully informed—popped open the bottle and poured a sample into Spencer’s glass. Daff and Liam both gawked at him expectantly, and Spencer sucked in an irritated breath before lifting the glass and—without bothering to do any of the swirling, sniffing crap—downed the entire portion in a gulp. Sometimes, brazening it out crassly was the only way to go. Putting up a front of impatience and arrogance was an excellent—if obnoxious—way of hiding any feelings of uncertainty.
“Awesome,” he said dismissively before pointing at Daff’s glass. “Fill up.”
“Yes, sir.” Liam leapt to it and practically genuflected before leaving with a promise to be back soon for their food orders.
Daff lifted her glass by the delicate stem, swirling it between her thumb and forefinger before taking a small mouthful. He watched her eyes close as she savored the taste of the wine—a taste he’d barely registered when he’d swigged it down—before swallowing it with a delicate movement of her slim throat.
“Good?” he asked, fascinated by that beautiful throat, and her eyes opened before she lifted her shoulders and placed the glass back on the table.
“Full-bodied. With subtle hints of black pepper, a mere suggestion of berries, that slight tang of woodsmoke—oak, if I’m not mistaken—and just the tiniest suggestion of vanilla.”
Spencer contemplated his glass dubiously before lifting his eyes back up to her somber face. That full lower lip was trembling ever so slightly, and Spencer felt his own lips curve.
“Bullshit.”
“Well, yeah!” she said, the “duh” unspoken but very present. “It tastes like red wine. I like red wine. It’s yum . . . but I never taste the hints of this and the overtones of that. Pretentious crap, if you ask me.”
“Right?” he agreed, feeling a chuckle rise up in his throat and escape before he could choke it back.
“Oh, he can laugh,” she observed, and he felt his cheeks heat. Did he give the impression that he couldn’t?
“Only when I find shit funny,” he said self-consciously.
“Well, then, do tell: What kind of ‘shit’”—she made air quotes—“do you find funny?”
“I don’t know. Random shit.”
“Like what? Adam Sandler movies?”
“Fuck no.”
“Ricky Gervais movies?”
“Who?”
“Work with me here, Carlisle. Tina Fey movies?”
“She’s pretty good.”
“What? I totally didn’t see that coming. You like chick coms?”
“When they’re funny. Y’know?”
“No I don’t, ’cause you won’t elaborate,” she complained, and he felt his smile widening.
“I don’t watch too many comedies; I find the humor forced.”
“Action man?”
“I wouldn’t say no to something with guns, fast cars, hot babes, and lots of explosions.”
“Improbable stunts? Fast and Furious style?”
“I’ve watched a few of those,” he confessed. “An okay way to spend a couple of hours.”
“We’re veering dangerously off topic, Carlisle. Come on, spit it out, what do you find funny?”
“Okay, so the other day,” he started, and Daff wriggled forward in her chair, eager and attentive. It was a little unnerving to be her sole focus, and he took a fortifying sip of the wine. “Customer comes in, asking if we sell branded condoms, you know, like Nike or Adidas condoms, and Claude, my manager, tells him”—he chuckled to himself at the recollection—“he says—”
He snorted when he recalled the expression on Claude’s face and his tone of voice. “He says, ‘I’m sorry, sir, the only Adidas latex we sell are those running shorts over there. Comfortable fit and ribbed for your pleasure and, yes, we do stock them in extra large.’”
By the time he finished his anecdote, he was practically clutching his sides. Usually he wouldn’t have condoned such attitude toward a customer, but this particular guy was a bored asshole who came in regularly with impossible requests. And Claude had such a genuine warmth to him that it was really hard to take offense to anything he said.
He wiped his streaming eyes and comprehended that Daff was sitting there with a polite smile on her face. He winced a bit.
“You—uh—you probably had to be there,” he said lamely, and the polite smile widened sweetly. It was a novelty seeing such a warm expression on her face, and he gaped.
“If the mere memory of it still has the ability to make you laugh like that, then I really wish I had been there.”
“Claude’s a funny guy,” he said, taking another drink. “He always says exactly the right thing at the right moment. Dry, quick wit.”
He knew he sounded wistful, but he did envy his store manager the ability to joke and put others at ease. He was a real people person, and Spencer had lucked out employing him. Claude was much better at interacting with the employees at SCSS. Spencer liked his staff, enjoyed being around them, and would move heaven and earth to ensure they were all treated fairly and enjoyed the best benefits. But while they were friendly and polite toward him, they maintained a certain reserve whenever they spoke with him. He knew that it was their way of showing him deference, and Spencer had to respect that reserve. He made an appearance at staff parties but never stayed long, knowing they would enjoy themselves more without him there.
Claude—with the easy smile and great sense of humor—was the guy they went to when they needed something. None of them would ever dream of approaching Spencer directly. And Spencer had long since made peace with that fact.
“So you find Claude funny?” Daff’s voice jerked him back into the present, and he smiled vaguely.
“Yeah.”
“Claude and Tina Fey movies. That’s a short list,” she said, chewing the inside of her cheek thoughtfully.
“And other stuff, of course,” he added, lifting his menu in the hopes of changing the subject. “I read that the food here is quite good.”
They both went back to studying the menu, and when Spencer caught sight of poor Liam hovering close by, he warded him off with a look and a curt shake of his head.
“Wait, you sell latex shorts?” she suddenly asked, and he grinned.
“Of course not. Claude was just bullshitting, but it was enough to send the guy packing.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met Claude,” she said.
“You must have seen him; he cycles to work every day. He’s passionate about his cycling; he’s entering the Argus next year.” The Cape Town Cycle Tour—commonly referred to as the Argus—was the largest individually timed cycle race in the world and attracted participants from every corner of the globe. It was a pretty grueling endurance test, and Daff was suitably impressed.
“Yes, I’ve definitely seen him. Great thighs,” she said admiringly, and Spencer instantly felt less than charitable toward his likable manager.
“Can’t say I’ve noticed,” he said, ice in his voice.
“Hard not to when he wears those spandex cycle shorts. Maybe I should pop into your store sometime.” That made him frown.
“It’s not like he wears them at work. He showers and changes before we open.”
“How tragic. Imagine how many female customers he’d draw to the store.”
“He’s married with four kids.”
“Four?”
“Happily married,” he stressed, and she sighed wistfully.
“The hot ones are always taken.”
Well, what the fuck was Spencer, then? Chopped liver? He couldn’t hide his frown and kept his attention on the menu to prevent her from seeing how her words had affected him.
“This all looks amazing,” Daff moaned. “How on earth are we supposed to choose?”
“I was thinking of trying the chef’s tasting menu—no need to choose then.”
She looked torn, obviously not wanting to agree with him.
“I suppose that’s a good idea,” she admitted reluctantly, and he hid his smile from her. He’d refrained from telling her earlier that she was on the very short list of things and people he sometimes found amusing. She was so damned prickly and combative and contrary as fuck. Which, while annoying, could also be kind of funny.
“I’ve been known to have those on occasion,” he said drily. He summoned Liam, who had been watching from much farther away, and placed the order. The man enthused about their excellent choice, asked them if they wanted to pair each course with specially selected wine—they did not—and hastened away purposefully.
“So this party.” Spencer figured he’d better get the ball rolling.
“What about it?”
“Any ideas?”
“Not a clue. You?”
“Not really. I’m not into planning parties. You may have noticed that I’m not the most social guy around.”
“No,” she gasped, and he narrowed his eyes at her sarcasm.
“So you agree we should do an out-of-town thing? Plett or farther afield?”
“I think Plett is good,” she said. “People can carpool and get there quickly. And we can rent a few hotel rooms and confiscate keys at the beginning of the evening to prevent the more stubborn drunken assholes from trying to drive back.”
“Yeah.”
“I suppose the first order of business is to figure out the guest list.”
“Mason doesn’t have a lot of local buddies. And most of the guys will be flying in a few days before the wedding.”
“So we’ll have to figure out when exactly they’re all arriving so that nobody gets left out of the plans.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” He watched her reach down for her purse and drag out a tiny notebook and pen.
“Can you guesstimate how many guys, approximately?”
“I’ve barely spoken with Mason about this. I mean, we have like three months left to plan. I didn’t think it was that urgent.”
She made a tsking sound and set the notebook aside.
“No, it’s two months, three weeks, and it’s nowhere near enough time to plan an event like this, Spencer,” she admonished. “Your first order of business after tonight is to sit your brother down and ask him how many guys will be coming to his stag. Does he even have groomsmen picked out?”
“I’m his best man,” he reminded her, feeling a little defensive and not entirely sure why.
“Yes, I know. But Daisy will have at least two bridesmaids—that’s not including any random cousins she may want to include. Mason will need a matching number of groomsmen.”
“I thought this was going to be a no-fuss wedding.”
“There’s no such thing as a no-fuss wedding.”
“God, if I ever get married, I think I’ll elope to fuckin’ Bali or something,” he muttered beneath his breath.
“Screw that, I’m never getting married,” she snorted, and that snagged his attention. He was about to question her about it when Liam returned with something tiny and decorative on a plate.
What the fuck? It didn’t even look like food.
“An amuse-bouche. With Chef’s compliments,” he announced with a smile and flourish as he placed the tiny black plates with cubes of perfectly pink meat and splotches of unidentifiable sauce and purple bits of something sprinkled artfully about. “Duck and honey jus, served with lightly toasted lavender sprigs.”
Right.
Daff looked genuinely delighted.
“How pretty,” she gasped, and the gorgeous smile that followed made the trip out here entirely worthwhile.
“Enjoy,” Liam urged them before beating a hasty retreat.
Daff lifted one of the smaller forks and Spencer quickly took her cue, finding the same fork before looking at his plate again. He cautiously stabbed a tiny cube of pink along with a miniscule sprig of purple and swiped it through a dab of golden sauce. Feeling braver than a man ought to when having dinner, he put it into his mouth.
His eyes widened as the flavors burst over his tongue. He didn’t do much fine dining—the fanciest he ever went was a good steak at a brasserie. This was . . . something else entirely. He polished off the small plate before Daff had even finished her first bite.
He was immediately happy he’d finished first, because he discovered that he really liked watching her enjoy every aspect of those couple of mouthfuls. The way her gorgeous lips closed over the fork, the tiniest bit of suction as she drew it back out. The suckling motion of her lips just before she chewed and then again that beautiful throat working as she swallowed it down.
Fuck, it was hot, and he was transfixed. He shifted slightly, his breathing jagged, his cock hard, his heart thudding heavily in his chest as he pictured those lips closing over his length and suckling in the same delicate motion. His eyelids grew heavy and he could practically feel those full lips engulfing the head of his dick, hot, moist . . .
Pull yourself together, asshole!
He jerked his eyes away, fighting for control over his crazy hormones. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was worse than a randy teenager. He was used to wanting Daff. Used to yearning for her. But this visceral reaction was new. Maybe because it was the first time he’d actually spent real time in her company. Having a civil conversation instead of just stuttering his way through yet another attempted flirtation. Turned out that spending time with the real, live Daffodil McGregor was a much bigger turn-on than worshipping Fantasy Daff from afar.
Who knew?
“Yum.” Her voice startled him, and he raised his eyes to meet hers. She was grinning from ear to ear, and it struck him that she was smiling a lot easier around him tonight.
“Good?”
“Yep. I love an amuse-bouche, it’s like getting a fun little predinner gift. I can get really comfortable in a world that gives you predinner presents.”
“So why do you think you’ll never get married?” he asked, remembering her statement before Liam’s arrival and grateful for a topic that could take his mind off his rampant hard-on.
“I don’t think, I know.” She seemed vehement about that.
“Why?”
“I’m not suited to it.”
“Why not? Your parents are happily married, Daisy and Mason are clearly in it for the long haul . . . you’re surrounded by nothing but happy couples. Why wouldn’t you be suited to it when it’s in your DNA?”
“Lia’s wedding fell through,” she reminded him.
“Lia deserved better than that asshole. As far as I’m concerned, that was a happy ending for her. And you know as well as I do that it’s only a matter of time before she falls for some other lucky guy and winds up happily married. I always figured you were headed the same way.”
“Not with the assholes I’ve dated in the past.”
“There must have been a good guy or two in the lot,” he probed, not really wanting to hear about her previous douchebag boyfriends, but curious nonetheless.
“Nah, rotten apples, the lot of them. I seem to attract losers and freaks.”
“Freaks? How so?” Her eyes slid from his and she started to look a little cagey, sending his curiosity into overdrive. What was she hiding?
“What about you?” she hedged. “You still holding out for that happily ever after, even after what Tanya did to you?”
Ouch. Living in a small town blew big-time. It hadn’t taken long for everybody from the priest to the local grocery packer to hear all about Tanya’s threesome. In fact, he estimated it had been less than a day before the whole town heard that he had caught her cheating. The humiliation had been unbearable, but he’d kept his head down and refused to discuss it with anybody. The only reason it got out was because one of Tanya’s asshole lovers—the local mechanic—was a blabbermouth who couldn’t wait to brag that he’d stolen the local rugby hero’s girl. As if he could steal Tanya—she didn’t belong to anybody, she belonged to everybody. She’d apparently flirted and fucked her way through half of the male population in town, seniors and high school kids included. A lot of them while she’d been with Spencer.
“I’m the eternal optimist,” he said grimly, and she giggled—as he had intended—at those words delivered in that tone of voice.
“Were you in love with her?”
“No.” He hoped the curt tone in his voice would discourage further questions, but she scooched forward in her chair and rested her chin in the palms of her hands, her eyes intent.
“You were with her for three years.”
“Habit.” Even more curtly. It didn’t deter her at all.
“Yes, but . . . three years. I was expecting a wedding announcement soon.”
“It never felt completely right with her.”
“Maybe that’s why she cheated? She knew you weren’t entirely into her.”
“Way to blame the victim, Daff,” he chastised. “But maybe it never felt completely right because she was fucking everybody she could almost from the moment we started seeing one another.”
“Yikes.” She winced theatrically.
“Come on, everybody knew.”
“I didn’t . . . not while it was happening. I found out afterward, of course, but I never knew it went that far back.”
“As far as I could tell, she was never faithful to me. She said that—” The memory of her exact words made him press his lips together in an attempt to stifle the laughter rising to the surface. He wasn’t wholly successful and pinched the bridge of his nose and lowered his face as the chuckles escaped in fits and starts.
Alarmed, Daff watched Spencer lower his eyes and cover his mouth. His shoulders started to shake and she gaped, horrified to discover how very raw the whole Tanya situation still was for him. Was he sobbing?
Oh God.
She cast an embarrassed look around the room, but nobody else seemed to notice his reaction, and she scooted over to the chair on his left.
“Hey, come on now, buddy. She’s not worth this,” she soothed, running a hand over one shaking shoulder. He looked up, and tears were gleaming in his eyes. His face was red and he seemed to be attempting to curb his sobs.
Wait. Were they sobs? His eyes widened at her sympathetic words, and his shoulders shook even more. She tugged at the hand he had clutched over his mouth, and when she managed to draw it down she saw that Spencer was laughing. Huge guffaws shook his body, and her concern seemed to set him off even more.
Exasperated, she flounced back to her chair and sat with her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for the chuckles to subside.
Part of her was enjoying the display, though. He looked boyishly handsome when he laughed, young and ever so slightly innocent. She’d noticed it earlier when he was telling that god-awful anecdote about his manager. He had an amazing laugh, warm and carefree, and she felt privileged to hear it when she knew that few others did.
Still, it would be nice to be let in on the joke. He reached for a napkin and wiped the corners of his eyes, finally seeming get himself under some semblance of control.
“I’m sorry,” he said, still trying to keep the chuckles at bay. “It’s just . . . the look on your face made it even worse.”
“What set you off?” she asked.
“Tanya—what she said in defense of her cheating—she said trying to keep her in a committed relationship was like caging a mermaid. When she was meant to swim free and frolic with dolphins.”
Daff blinked and then pressed her lips together.
“As mermaids do,” she said with a somber nod.
“Wild and free. With the dolphins.”
“A mermaid?”
“Yep. A freaking mermaid.”
“I mean . . . she knows mermaids aren’t real, right?” He grinned at the question, stifling another chuckle.
“Who knows? Although, since mermaids don’t have sexual organs and she was fucking everything with a dick, I don’t know why she’d go there.”
“Why were you with her so long? I’ve had a few conversations with her in the past and . . . she’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed.”
“Like I said before, habit. She was a warm body to come home to. She was sweet and affectionate. And I liked that she made no demands. She seemed happy enough in the relationship.”
“Were you hurt? By her infidelity?”
“I think you mean infidelities,” he corrected, a shadow crossing his expression. “I felt betrayed, obviously. And humiliated.”
The last was conceded almost reluctantly, and he looked like he immediately wished the words back. Before he could say anything more, the waiter returned with their first course and Daff was suitably distracted by the beautifully arranged sliver of yellowtail, accompanied by a swirl of lemon jus and fennel foam.
She looked up to share her delighted smile with Spencer and caught him glaring at the plate in front of him.
“Should have eaten before this,” she heard him mutter beneath his breath, and her smile widened. He was entertaining as hell. Something she hadn’t expected at all. His sense of humor was odd, but it was gratifying to know that he had one. No matter how offbeat it was. She was already borderline addicted to the sound of his laughter, and she could watch him smile all night.
He was ridiculously attractive, and she was trying her level best not to succumb to that attraction. She did stupid things when she liked a guy, and for the first time in years she found herself without a significant other. It was revelatory. She liked herself more when she wasn’t trying to impress some man. It was like unearthing a whole new Daffodil McGregor, and she found that she liked the person she was discovering beneath the layers of pretense that she hadn’t even known were there.
An attraction to Spencer Carlisle might halt that discovery process entirely.
Put it out of your head, Daff, she admonished herself severely. It’s not going to happen.
She lifted her fork and noticed that Spencer mirrored her movement. He’d done that earlier as well, with the amuse-bouche, and she clued in to the fact that he wasn’t as familiar with the place settings as she was. She found it curious that he’d chosen to come here, despite the fact that it appeared to be outside his comfort zone.
“Why did you choose this place?” she asked, and his fork halted halfway to his mouth.
“Don’t you like it?”
“It’s beautiful, and the food’s fantastic. I was just curious. You said you’ve been meaning to try it for a while. It just isn’t the type of place I pictured you liking.”
“Why not? Because I’m a Carlisle? Because I once did whatever it took to survive and grew up in a dilapidated old house with broken windows and no heating?”
Jesus, Daff hadn’t known that his childhood was that dire. She’d heard snippets from Daisy, but to hear it from Spencer himself was . . . sad.
“No.” She finally found her voice and responded to his defensive questions. “Because you seem like a down-to-earth, meat and potatoes guy like—”
“Like who? My deadbeat alcoholic father?” He bristled, and she rolled her eyes.
“Hate to break it to you, buddy, but I barely remember your father. I was going to say, like my dad. But you’re acting like a hormonal chick, so I take back that particular compliment. My dad is awesome, and you’re being less than awesome right now.”
He paused, his face clearing as he lowered his fork back down to his plate.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, the words brimming with sincerity. “It’s a touchy subject. My dad, I mean.”
“You brought him up.”
“Hmm. I also feel a little uncouth in a place like this.” The confession was hushed, and his eyes were directed out over the dark lagoon in an effort to avoid meeting her stare. Daff could barely hear him over the piano music in the background and the chatter of the other restaurant patrons. “With its weird wine rituals and place settings and unrecognizable food.”
“Then why come here?” she asked again, her voice gentling.
“I thought you’d like it.”
Oh.
For God’s sake. Why was he so damned sweet?
“I do,” she said after a beat. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
His eyes swung back in her direction, and she met his scrutiny head-on. Her expression was serious, but she hoped that he could see that she was being sincere. His eyes darted back and forth between hers for an excruciatingly long moment before he smiled. The parting of his lips was slow and hesitant, like a foal taking its very first steps. It was like watching the sun come out from behind a cloud, and the subsequent brightness was almost blinding after so much gloom.
“You’re welcome.”
“Now try the fish. It’s freaking awesome.”
“There’s barely enough here to feed a fuckin’ gnat,” he complained, and she laughed.
“This is the first of seven courses. You’ll be stuffed after this, trust me.”
He looked dubious but lifted his fork nonetheless.
“I hope so, or we’re stopping at a McDonald’s on our way home.”
“Trust me,” she repeated, keeping her gaze level, and he nodded.
“Hmm.”
“What a fucking revelation that was,” Spencer groaned in the car a few hours later. The evening had gone surprisingly well after his stupid, embarrassing first-course rant. They had kept the subjects neutral and limited to mutual acquaintances and party planning. Daff was an easygoing, witty companion, and his fascination with her was stronger than ever by the time the long and shockingly good meal was finally done.
“I mean, most of that stuff looked like art—how the hell did they manage to make it so delicious and so filling at the same time? I don’t get it. It’s like some weird sorcery.”
“You ate seven courses, Spencer,” she reminded him. “That’s a lot of food.”
“It didn’t look like a lot of food.” He shook his head, still astonished.
“But it was.”
“I didn’t hate it.” He could hear the shock in his own voice, and she laughed.
“I didn’t hate it, either. In fact, I found everything about it quite enjoyable. The company included.”
He nearly swerved from the road in his rush to look at her.
“Hey, watch the road, buddy,” she criticized.
“Sorry. I just . . . I enjoyed your company, too.” And now he sounded like a teenage boy after his first date, and he cringed a little.
“Good to know we can spend a few hours together without killing one another, huh? Bodes well for this partnership.”
“I never find your company a hardship,” he said, focusing his attention back on the road. Disturbed by her words. “If anything, you’re the one with some inexplicable grudge against me.” He heard the questioning lilt in his statement, inviting her to elaborate on exactly why she always seemed to have it out for him. But she didn’t respond, just kept her attention on the darkness outside.
Fuck it. He was going to ask and let the words fall where they may.
“Why don’t you like me?”
And didn’t that just sound needy as fuck?
“I don’t not like you,” she said, her voice completely emotionless, which frustrated the hell out of him.
“You always seemed to.” Why was he pursuing this? It was humiliating, but for some reason he couldn’t seem to help himself.
“I just don’t think we have much in common, that’s all,” she elaborated. “You were a rugby player.” She said the words in the same tone of voice one might use to say serial killer.
“Not sure what that’s supposed to mean,” he muttered.
“Nothing, I just tend to get along with more cerebral people.” The dashboard lights highlighted her immediate wince, telling him she regretted the words as soon as she said them. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“You think I’m dumb.” He was hurt and completely offended by her words and her attitude. And was sorry to witness the resurgence of her snobbery, which had been refreshingly absent all evening. “Guess that explains the mushroom thing.”
“No, I don’t think you’re dumb. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Daffodil,” he said, quite fucking fed up with this bullshit, “but you barely finished high school and didn’t go to college, right?”
Silence.
“Because while I may have been just a rugby player and it may have been what got me into college, it wasn’t what helped me graduate summa cum laude. It wasn’t what made me start a sports shop from scratch and turn it into one of the most thriving businesses in the area. That all came from here”—he stabbed his forefinger against his forehead and then lowered his hand to jerk a thumb at his chest—“and here.”
“Spencer—”
He’d had more than enough and leaned forward to turn on the radio, flooding the car with loud rock music. She was still trying to talk and he cranked the volume, ignoring her and whatever trite apology she felt the need to throw at him this time.
When would he learn his lesson where Daffodil McGregor was concerned? He was like a dog that kept going back to someone who beat it constantly. It was humiliating. It was past time to grow some balls where this woman was concerned.
The rest of the ride was punctuated by loud, angry music, and when he slid to a stop outside her house, he was still so pissed off he didn’t bother to get out and open the passenger door for her. He could tell from the way she sat and watched him for a few moments that she was expecting him to, and when he didn’t she sighed and opened the door.
Before exiting the car, she reached forward and pushed the mute button on the radio. The immediate silence thundered between them, but he still refused to acknowledge her, maintaining a death grip on his steering wheel as he glowered grimly ahead.
“I’m really sorry, Spencer. I had a pretty great time tonight.”
He wasn’t going to soften, no matter how sweet her damned voice. He’d fallen for that bullshit before—it was the way she operated. Pretend to let him in before shutting him down so hard his head reeled. He’d experienced a few concussions during his rugby days, but none of them had ever left him as dazed and confused as Daff did.
“I’ll see you at lunchtime tomorrow?” His hands tightened on the wheel, and he ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached.
“No.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Good night.” She left without a further word, and much as he wanted to just speed the hell out of there, he still felt compelled to make sure she got into the house safely. Once the door was shut and the lights were on, he took off like a bat out of hell. Promising himself that he would never allow her to fool him again.